


Call Me Ser

by modbelle



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arya makes Septa Mordane cry, F/M, Future is the new canon?, On LJ first and looking for a vacation home, Sansa is a lady!, Sexual Content, Stark Sisters: Best Prepare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-22
Updated: 2012-08-22
Packaged: 2017-11-12 15:36:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/492831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/modbelle/pseuds/modbelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompts: "Would you like me to get down on my knees, sir Gendry?"; and Sansa points out to her stubborn sister that Gendry is a knight now, he should be addressed with a proper title: Ser.  The sisters, looking for any excuse to argue, debate on how they should treat Gendry, while said man looks on with amusement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call Me Ser

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing, all characters belong to HBO and George R.R. Martin.  
> Repost from lj: [asoiafkinkmeme](http://asoiafkinkmeme.livejournal.com)  
> Spoilers through _A Storm of Swords_.

“Would you like me to suck your cock, Ser?” the girl asks her mouth curled into a smile showing off her dimples.

“Forget it,” Gendry says lacing his breeches back up and locating his shoes.

“Did I say something wrong?” _Yes, yes, you did_ , thinks Gendry.

“Changed my mind is all,” Gendry tells her pulling on his other shoe. He doesn’t bother tucking in his shirt or any other inconsequential things. He strides out the door as fast as his feet can carry him. _The girl deserved better. Cow or no, she deserved better to be walked out on._ But it felt like she was mocking his dreams and fantasies. In them, it’s Arya older, not the age he remembers her, or even the age she would be right now. It’s Arya in the not too distant future. Or better yet, what he imagines Arya would look like in a year or two from now. She’s pretty much the same really: skinny, tiny, and big eyes. Her hips are small, face a slightly softer and more feminine, and breasts, little but present. How and where seem not important, only he is once again with Arya. She’s not lost, dead, or out of reach.

He can feel the hunger rise; he’d settle for acting a fool and staring, or hugging her tight to his chest. He sure that he won’t let go, will follow her if she somehow squirms out. Quirking an eyebrow, she asks, “Would you like me to get down on my knees, Ser Gendry?" It feels like playing catching up, he’s missed something important, unprepared. _What is she talking about?_ He hates when she thinks he is stupid. So he nods. Knees sound a good idea, it’s hard to run on your knees, and her speed has been his biggest problem keeping up. He won’t let her leave, not again. Gracefully, like she is in all things, she drops to her knees right in front of him. Her small hands come up and pull his breeches’ laces. _What are you doing?_ Holds his breathe, hoping she will continue. He will give anything for her to continue. She draws his cock out tracing the length with her finger. Her eyes widen curiously, and she softly kisses the head. 

“Have you done this before?” Gendry asks and he wants to punch himself. So many bad things can come from that question; she may stop or tell him yes. Both he would hate.

Arya glares at him, “I can figure it out.” Her mouth shallows his cock. It’s warm, wet, and wonderful. This may be the single greatest thing that’s ever happened to him…till she chokes. 

“Not a word,” she warns, his cock withdrawn from her mouth. Not moaning or groaning is difficult. Impossible, really. He keeps it to a minimum though. He’s pretty sure no one has ever stared at his cock with as much concentration as she does now, like his cock is some difficult puzzle she needs to find the solution to. _Gods, her eyes are a turn on._ He needs back into her mouth. If it would get him anywhere, he’d plead. But Arya is the same as life; pleading won’t get you what you want. Instead he will appear weak, and Arya will do what she wants and in her own time. She’s planning a strategy for is cock, and telling her to figure it out as she goes along won’t convince her. Probably, she’d get angry, punch him, and leave. It’s useless like a peasant yielding. So he clinches his fists, and hopes eventually she will lower her mouth back onto him. There’s a nod and a light in her eyes. Slowly, so damn slowly, she licks his cock, and lowers her mouth over the head taking him little by little. She doesn’t try putting the full thing in her mouth again. But she’s sucking, sliding her mouth up and down his length, and her eyes look up at him from time to time. It’s over all too soon. She shallows what she can, and climbs to her feet with a self-satisfied grin. Kisses him over and over again, till he wakes up alone or finishes in his own fist.

He rings cows’ bells. He is a big bull after all, and he knows better than to think he will ever get what he wishes for. Even if Arya returned, she would still be a lady; a simple fact that ruins his dreams for a future together. Sure Tom sings about ladies loving knights and their unions. But how many knights in those songs had a title and lands? How many bastard knights did ladies love, and families approve marrying their daughters? Still a knight had a better chance than a bastard blacksmith. Not enough to expect he would ever actually have Arya, but enough he could dream sometimes. He liked people calling him Ser, just never in bed. It served to remind him during sex he could ring cows’ bells, but he’d never be a good enough knight for a lady, the lady he wanted.

When Sansa Stark and her guards, Jaime Lannister and Brienne, cross his path, he thinks the gods may be setting him up for false hope. The Brotherhood Without Banners offer to ride with Sansa and her companions and help provide safe passage. He sticks particularly close to her since he knows Arya wouldn’t trust a Lannister, and some small part of him can’t help hoping Arya will find out about Sansa.. He’s sure she would come if she knew Sansa was alive. _It’s my only hope for finding Arya._ There is that word again, “hope.” Hope has never done him any good. He learned long ago, you grab what you can reach, not the stars. You will lose what you can have by aiming for something you can’t get. A boy like him doesn’t get what he wants. Sometimes he still dreams though. It’s why his first solo project he created a bull’s helmet. He wanted to be a knight, ride wearing his helmet into battle. He never really thought it would happen; he just knew the helmet was his and he polished his dream, held onto it, until it was taken as well. In the end, he preferred having a lady, and settled for his original dream. It’s the way his life works.

But he still can’t beat the hope Arya may come now, with his hammer or cut its head off with his sword. So he takes special care remaining near Sansa and answering “mi’lady” in louder voice than necessary in taverns they stay at. Sansa calls him, “Ser,” after he introduced himself the first time as a knight in The Brotherhood Without Banners. He likes the sound of it rolling off a real lady’s tongue more than he should. It makes him forget his place; feel not so very far beneath ladies and lords. In these moments, he is a proper knight. The day Arya shows up, he’s shocked. _I never thought my hints to barkeepers were much of a plan, just a bastard’s hope._ The reunion isn’t teary eyed. It’s awkward. Two sisters looking like strangers trying to figure each other out. A few days later and things appear more normal, sisters arguing. They argue about pretty much everything.

Arya’s time seems taken up between Brotherhood Without Banners welcoming her back, arguing with her sister, and studying Jaime Lannister. He feels stupid following her about so he might get her attention. Still he sits down at her table inside the inn, even though Sansa and Jaime Lannister are likely to take all of her attention while Brienne and he fade into the background. He’s more looking for an opportunity to jump into the conversation than following exactly what is said.

“Ser Jaime, Arya. It’s Ser Jaime and Ser Gendry,” Sansa corrects her. Gendry sits back feeling pleased the conversation may end up involving him.

“Forget your Sers, it’s ‘Gendry,’” Arya insists.

Sansa sighs exasperatedly, “He’s a knight. You call knights, ‘Ser.’ It’s his proper title.” Feeling his interest rise, he wants Sansa to win this argument, get Arya to see him as a knight. Really he wants to hear Arya say it, even if it’s the one time; it would make his fantasies so much better. The serving girl comes along, and he nods for another drink. He doesn’t plan on missing a moment and if Arya relents and says it, he may very well not be leaving the table for a while.

“He’s a blacksmith,” counters Arya, “See his hands, his arms. That sword over there, he made it.”

“Lord Beric knighted him. He rides in an army, and defends the helpless,” Sansa shakes her head at her sister, “Whatever jobs he also does is benefitting his position as a knight.”

Arya rises and braces her arms on the table, glaring at her sister. “Stop it,” she demands, “You are trying to ruin a perfectly good bull.”

“He’s a knight not a bull.”

“A bull. It is so. You want to make him into one of your knights. Already you have him remembering his courtesies. Next thing you know, you’ll have him jousting in tournaments and throwing you flowers.”

Jaime’s head perks up and interrupts, “I happen to like _winning_ tournaments. I wouldn’t recommend you try them though. Bulls wear flowers around their necks not win them.” It pleases Gendry that at least Jaime receives nasty looks from both girls, Arya for mocking him and Sansa for agreeing with her sister. 

“I’m sure you would do wonderfully in jousting, Ser Gendry,” Sansa reassures him, “I would be honored to wear your token or receive a flower.”

“Thank you, mi’lady,” responds Gendry and the smile Sansa gives him makes him believe he pulled the courtesy off. Ned Dayne couldn’t have done a better job himself.

Arya’s eyes turn cold, hard, and scary. It’s her angry stare, matured over the years and only become fiercer. Right now, she’s directing those angry eyes at him. “My apologies, Ser,” says Arya chillingly. _I’ll hear that voice now, disgusted and angry. “Do you want me to get down on my knees, Ser.”_ Ruined. His fantasies ruined. Even in his own head she won’t take him into her mouth or anywhere else. Or at least, it will be a long time before he can dream without it becoming a nightmare. He watches her storm out, dignified and dangerous. Signals the serving girl, he needs at least one more mug full of beer before tackling the Arya situation. Sansa’s talking but he focuses on draining the beer quickly as possible. Just because he’s tired of chasing after Arya doesn’t mean he won’t do it. The few minutes gulping down his beer are all the dignity he’ll allow himself.

Gendry searches for Arya, but he can’t find her. It’s pointless really, she’ll come back when she wants and no one will find her till then. He’s not sure he’s in the mood for her and doesn’t look forward to his impending nightmares. _I want to hit something._ So he gives up the search and locates the local forge. The weight of the hammer feels good in his hands, and so does the burn of his muscles, slamming the hammer down over and over again. Pounding the steel before him, he wishes he had more time, he’d make something. 

“Blacksmiths search for forges,” informs Arya, sneaking up out of nowhere like usual, “Thought you weren’t one.”

“Never said I wasn’t.”

Arya’s watching him hesitantly. “Sansa likes her songs, knights rescuing ladies and winning their love. It’s stupid, really. But Sansa is a proper lady and likes her knights all the same. I am no lady. I don’t want to be rescued. I want to fight, plan, and get dirty. Are you Sansa’s knight? Or are you my bull?”

“I’m a knight for the Brothers Without Banners and a bull,” Gendry responds carefully. He’s on dangerous ground here, answering questions he doesn’t quite understand the real meaning behind.

“Not Sansa’s knight?” questions Arya.

“I’m my own knight.” Her lips are on his, and she pulls him close. He rests his big hands on her small hips, and eagerly traces her tongue with his. It’s over too soon, her hands pushing him back, away.

“Tell me you are my bull,” she demands.

“I’m your bull.” _I was yours since you were nothing more than a ragged boy._ He sounds stupid enough as it is without saying his thoughts as well. 

Smiling at him, she asks, “Would you like me to get down on my knees, bull?” He nods, not so sure he’s capable of speaking without ruining this.

Gracefully, she slinks down to her knees, and strokes his breeches. Slowly she starts to tug at one of the laces and stops. Looking up at him, her big eyes sharp, she threatens, “No more ringing cows’ bells or anyone who isn’t this girl, or I will cut off your balls.”

He rolls his eyes up and pretends to think, because really he’s beyond the thinking stage. Besides it’s not something he has to consider. Everything he has ever wanted is on her knees next to his cock. Still a minute should convince her that he thought about it, and would take her threat seriously. Not a stretch in that department, Arya’s threat is a promise. “Sounds fair,” he tells her. As she starts once again undoing his laces, he hears himself ask, “What about you with other men?”

She huffs, “Don’t be stupid. What would I want with men when I have a bull?” Finishing with his laces, she pulls his cock out, and squeezes it gently in her hand. Quirking an eyebrow, she asks, “Any more questions?” He shakes his head back and forth so quickly, he wonders if she will laugh. Instead, she lowers her mouth onto his cock, and his last coherent thoughts are maybe he saw this in Thoros’ flames and it left an impression in his head? Or maybe, just maybe, sometimes bulls and blacksmiths get good things as well.


End file.
